by Jack Cuatt
Machine takes a seat on an empty bench not far from the crumbling pillars of the park's main entrance. A nearby streetlight sheds just enough light to read by. He flips through the first section of the paper as he devours the warmed-over egg rolls and downs the orange juice. He finds a small article on his parents’ murder opposite a half-page story about the gang war raging between the Playboy Gangster Crips and the Hammerskins. Fifteen dead so far. Big news. Machine barely sees the stories.
The article about Moses and Connie is brief. The Christian Police believe that the hit on Machine's parents was gang-related. Moses Slaski, better known as Red Sleeves, was the reputed executioner for the Kukov family. The Jesus creeps have no leads and expect none. Case closed.
Machine folds the paper and drops it on the bench with the trash from his meal. He thinks briefly of calling Marie Kukov, but he can’t do that, not now, at his lowest point. Maybe when all of this is behind him. When he can face her as a man, not a hired killer.
Machine turns south on Worthington and crosses the Free Zone in the direction of the new Historic District. It takes fifteen minutes to reach the Kukov Family's south-side safe-house.
The creep battle cruisers are more frequent in this part of the old city. The streetlights function as intended and the buildings, brownstones built early in the last century, are in relatively good repair. This is one part of Low Town that receives almost as much attention as the new city. Old money, conservative Christian money, makes the Council pay attention.
Another park, smaller and well groomed, named after a forgotten World War II general, stands opposite the safe-house.
Brass numbers above the door read 4221. It looks as respectable as the buildings that surround it. Kukov Realty, one of Vlad Kukov’s fronts, is the owner.
Machine sits down on a wrought-iron bench facing the brownstone. He loathes the idea of entering the house, of reentering the Kukov family. He has enough money to start a new life. He knows that's what his mother would want, but he can't do it. He can't forgive or forget. All accounts on this earth must be paid in full. Blood for blood. The blond chopper has to be chopped. And Kukov will be able to find him.
Machine rises from the bench just as a Christian Police battle cruiser glides around the corner. He waits at the curb for the cruiser to pass. He doesn't look out of place in this neighborhood. He's not a bum or a junkie, just a teenager in a rumpled suit. Someone’s kid coming back from a night out partying. The cruiser turns left at the next street.
Machine counts to five after the cruiser's taillights disappear then crosses the street, climbs the stairs, and raps three times on the heavy oak door. It opens almost immediately and he slips through the gap into a paneled hallway, into the smell of damp coats and hats, dusty carpets and cigar smoke. The oak walls are bare of ornamentation. The hallway contains nothing but a faded Oriental rug, a coat rack piled with damp overcoats and Dean Marcel with a Glock-17 in his hand, his finger on the trigger, the front sight locked on Machine’s bellybutton.
Dean’s a pretty boy with overdone hair and too much muscle to be useful. He's been with the Kukovs for six months, working debt collection.
Machine looks down at the gun, then up at Dean, his gaze flat, unimpressed. Dean flushes. He lowers the pistol, but he doesn’t like it.
“What do you—” he begins but Machine is already walking past him, down the hall to the first room on the right. Dean's eyes stay on the teenager's back all the way, the Glock by his side.
The room is fogged with cigarette and cigar smoke. Three men in shirtsleeves are seated at a card table playing poker for pocket change. Machine walks in and the conversation dies. He knows all of the card players, but he says nothing as he crosses the room to a chair in the far corner and seats himself. While returning the card players' uneasy glances with a blank stare, he takes a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his jacket pocket and the Smith from its holster. He lights the cigarette with his left hand and places the 9mm on his lap. He has no friends here; he has killed many of these men's associates. He drags deeply on the cigarette, settles back and prepares to wait. Fat Paul, the underboss of the Kukov family, will stop by eventually; he does every day after making his collection run. Machine is patient.
The players continue shuffling and dealing for fifteen silent minutes before raking in the silver and stacking the cards. They drift out in a pack. None of them bother to say goodbye.
Machine waits an hour and a half before the front door opens and Fat Paul's booming voice echoes off the hallway’s dusty paneling. The underboss is angry. He’s yelling orders for a hit on a West Side Crips clique. The Crips had ripped off a shipment of Kukov cocaine. The war between the Kukovs and the fading Scarpo crew has created a lot of confusion. The Crips were hoping to take advantage of that. Bad move.
Kukov's war against Scarpo has bogged down lately. Scarpo's crew is on the ropes, but Kukov is low on funds and men. Unable to press his advantage, he's trying to build a war chest. He can't afford to let the Crips rip him off.
Kukov had been content after pushing the Irish out of the docks and the Colombians out of the crack trade, to secure his holdings, but after four profitable years and a successful election at the Dock Workers’ Union, the old man is aiming for complete control of the Zone. All of the dope, all of the clubs, and all the whores. Only Scarpo and the Crips stand in his way. The Children of The Blood Militia, who control the weapons trade, are beyond Kukov's reach.
“No survivors. Understood?” Paul sounds tough but that's as far as it goes. The fat man reaches the door to the card room, still running his mouth. But the words dry up when he locks eyes with Machine. Obviously no one has told him that Machine was waiting.
Paul is tall and fat with a curly circus mustache and shaggy black hair. He's dressed like a pimp in an eight hundred dollar blue silk suit and a flashy red tie. And a pimp is what he is. Even as Kukov's right-hand man, in on all the graft and profits, he still runs a restaurant in the Zone and a string of underage boys and girls.
“Hello, Paul,” Machine says, rising from the chair where he has sat motionlessly. He holsters the 9mm. Paul never carries a weapon; he has a long record from the old days, and a gun charge would send him to one of the prison factories.
Paul takes a step back as Machine crosses the room toward him. The icy teenager has always made Paul uneasy. Paul has known Machine for the teenager’s entire life, but never has he seen more than a trace of emotion. As a baby Machine had never cried or complained. To Paul, the teenage chopper is as remote and indifferent as the plague. The embodiment of unfeeling, unreasoning death.
“Hello, Machine,” Paul says. The consummate politician, he manages to work up a convincing smile. In Low Town fear equals respect.
“I want to see Vlad,” Machine states bluntly. He doesn’t like Paul any more than Paul likes him.
Paul looks agitated, hesitant. He starts to protest then stops. There's no way he wants to take Machine anywhere, but he doesn't have much of a choice. Kukov will want to see the young killer. To hear about the death of Red Sleeves, the most feared killer in a city full of murderers, first hand.
“All right Machine,” Paul says, looking like he wants to bite his tongue off. “My car's outside.”
Paul leads the way out, past pretty boy Dean Marcel who holds the door open, chest out, eyes forward like a good soldier. Paul's Cadillac Electra is parked illegally against the curb at the bottom of the steps. It’s wine red with a tan interior, gold Daytons and twelve sixty-volt batteries.
There's no traffic. Paul drives fast. He takes the ramp to the elevated highway, guides the Cadillac into the far right lane and pushes the accelerator to the floor, heading for White Settlement, one of the most exclusive suburbs of New Town. In the dash lights’ green glow, Paul looks grim, impatient. Machine pays no attention to the fat man. He's thinking of what he will say to Kukov.
9
The drive takes a half hour but the two men do not speak. Paul calls Kukov on his cell
phone, warns him of the visit then turns on the radio, tuned to the government news channel. The news is not new. The Christian Council has set up a commission to review the “No Enforcement” policy in Low Town. Drug crimes and murders are out of control. Finally Paul exits the highway and turns east on a narrow blacktop road.
Black-limbed, leafless trees arch over the road. Empty fields and furrowed ground bracket it. Kukov's estate is two miles down on the right. Paul heaves a sigh of relief as he turns in at the asphalt driveway set between the tall brick walls that encircle the property. He stops before the gate and powers down the window as a Kukov soldier approaches from the shadows.
“Hello, Mr. Fielder,” the voice comes from between a turned up coat collar and a pulled down hat.
Paul growls something back and powers up the window. The gate slides open and he guns the Cadillac through, up the sweeping drive and around a dense stand of pine trees. Once around the pines, the house comes into view. It's massive, formed of pale tan stucco and orange Spanish tile. At the rear of the house, Machine knows from previous visits, is a swimming pool, a pool house and a bunkhouse for Kukov’s crew.
Paul parks in front of a wide set of steps that lead up to a covered porch. Machine steps out of the Cadillac before it’s even stopped moving. He stands there for a moment, breathing in the cool country air and looking over the grounds as Paul clambers out of the car. There are no soldiers in sight. Kukov's wife doesn't enjoy the company of the gangsters her husband employs. They keep to the perimeter.
Machine follows Paul up the steps and through the front door.
The main corridor is Spanish in design, with heavy timbers supporting the ceiling, roughly plastered walls, earth-colored tile, and rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs. A narrow set of stairs leads to the second floor. Paul leads the way down a hall to the left of the stairs, Machine hard on his heels. The underboss stops before an oak door banded in iron, knocks, and opens it without waiting for a reply. Machine is almost concealed by the big man's bulk as they enter Kukov's study.
This is Vlad Kukov's favorite room, smoky wood paneling and thick brown shag. The furniture is bulky, dusty and very old. Book shelves and murky oil paintings complete the depressing motif. Kukov acquired the house and furnishings for one price. He doesn't like the furniture, he just accepts it the same way he would the view out of the kitchen window. Besides, he paid good money for it and suspects it's in good taste.
Vlad sits behind a gigantic desk littered with paperwork and desk gadgets. The Boss is fifty-four with a thick head of curly hair, almost an afro, and swarthy skin spotted with tiny brown moles that match his eyes. His wide shoulders and barrel chest are supported by a healthy paunch. Only five feet nine, he gives the impression of a much larger man.
Vlad Kukov came to this country from Russia at the age of five with his father, mother and two teenage brothers. Vlad's father was a minor figure in the Moscow Mafia who had ripped off a shipment of ephedrine and split for America. But he underestimated the Russian mob's reach. They caught up with him at his Low Town apartment two months after his arrival in the U. S. Vlad's father, mother, and brothers were slowly dismembered while Vlad hid in a closet.
Vlad Kukov silently watches the two men approach, his eyes as blank as marbles. Paul wordlessly points Machine to a leather wing chair facing Kukov. He leaves as Machine seats himself. The door clicks softly closed behind the fat man.
“How are you Alex? Are you holding up okay?” Vlad asks in a cigar-roughened basso, looking Machine over with narrowed eyes. Vlad still has a trace of a guttural accent, the only thing obviously Russian about him.
Machine nods mutely. He’s here for only one thing, a lead on the blond chopper.
Vlad leans across his desk and plucks a cigar from a wooden box. He inspects the cigar critically before cutting the end then leans back and takes his time lighting it, rolling the fat cylinder to keep the ember even.
“I'm sorry about your mother and father, Alex. Shit like this happens,” He apologizes and takes a deep drag. “I'm taking care of everything. The priest, caskets, all of it.” He blows smoke at the ceiling. “It’s the least I can do.”
“I want the chopper,” Machine gets to the point. He doesn't like Vlad any more than he likes Fat Paul, but Vlad can help him. Machine is polite but he can't force himself to be friendly. He wouldn't know how anyway. “And I want your permission to go after Scarpo.”
Vlad looks surprised. He takes the cigar from his mouth. “It wasn't personal. Your father was a good man. They wanted him dead.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t personal,” he repeats.
“My mother makes it personal,” Machine replies woodenly.
Vlad nods. He puffs his cigar, sips his drink, and nods again. “It’s the business we’re in, Alex. People get killed all the time. Revenge is for suckers. How do you even know it was Scarpo?”
“Scarpo wanted him dead. Five-hundred K worth. Open contract.”
Vlad shrugs and rolls the cigar between his teeth. “Okay, so, maybe it was Scarpo.” He shrugs again. “Maybe. But maybe it was the Crips. Or the Skins. Or some dope dealer Moses ripped off. Your father had nothing but enemies in Low Town, Alex.”
“Scarpo is a place to start,” Machine says, undeterred.
“So, you trying to get yourself killed? Scarpo will get what’s coming to him. Give it some time. Bury your parents.” Vlad tries the Dutch uncle routine.
“Scarpo. Yes or no?” Machine asks. He would like to have Kukov’s sanction, but he won’t let the lack of it stop him. “I’ll take out him and the rest of his crew.”
“His whole crew?” Vlad laughs around the cigar then goes into a coughing fit. It sounds like coal being shoveled. He pulls the cigar from his mouth and wipes his eyes as the coughing subsides.
“You got big brass ones, Alex. That's for sure,” he whispers hoarsely.
“I mean what I say.”
Kukov raises a hand, palm out. “I know you do, but it’s not that easy. You read the papers? Watch the news? The Christian Council claims they're going to clean up Low Town. Push us, the Crips, the Children of The Blood Militia and the Hammerskins out.” Kukov chews his cigar viciously, eyes flashing. “That fucking Scarpo, though, that bitch has the Council locked up. His grandfather used to pay off their grandfathers. He’ll be running the fucking place by his self if he has his way.” Vlad sighs and shakes his head. “The bottom line is, wait. His fucking time is coming.” He abruptly changes the subject. “I'd like you to stay close to the house for a while. Paul will fix you up at the bunkhouse,” the tone is dismissive. Interview over.
Machine maintains his seat, his eyes fixed on Vlad’s until the old man finally looks away, down at his desk top. A thoughtful, brooding look passes over Vlad’s face, adding ten years and a couple of pounds of sagging jaw. When he begins to speak again, it is in a remote, unguarded voice.
“Your father was a good man, Alex. The best. Without him…” Vlad's shoulders lift and fall. “A good man,” he repeats and, as suddenly as the moment came it is gone. Kukov looks up and his face is set again, eyes as still as the Dead Sea.
“I want the chopper,” Machine repeats, grinding the words out, his cold surface barely disturbed by the rage carving him up inside. “Find him and I’ll forget about Scarpo for the time being.” To Machine, the shooter was the most culpable for his mother’s murder. Scarpo was just a gangster doing what a gangster does: trying to kill other gangsters. But there was no contract on Connie Slaski. The blond chopper had killed her because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed it. And for that he would pay. In pieces.
Vlad grimaces. “I'll do all I can,” he finally acquiesces, dumping cigar ash into a brass bowl decorated with colored glass. “Now find Paul and tell him to put you up in the bunkhouse. Help isn't free. I help you; you help me. I could use a good shooter on my hip.” He looks pointedly at the door.
Machine nods slowly, his jaw muscles bunched. Going to work for the Kukov crew. He knew it was coming. He also knows reve
nge will not be worth the price he will have to pay. But it doesn't change his mind.
“Agreed.”
“I made arrangements for Holy Oak, is that okay?” Vlad's tone softens as he mentions the cemetery.
“Fine,” Machine hears himself say.
“The service is tomorrow. I'm sorry, but I won't be there. Business,” Vlad adds, then turns his attention to the paperwork scattered across his desk.
Machine nods stiffly, lets himself out, and goes in search of Fat Paul.
After the door closes, Vlad Kukov lifts his head and his eyes linger on the scarred oak door for a thoughtful moment, his expression troubled. He likes the cold young killer. With a little grooming Machine could be even better than Red Sleeves. And even more trouble…
Finally Vlad sighs, rubs his eyes, stubs out his cigar, and returns to his paperwork.
10
Holy Oak Cemetery is thirty acres of gnarled oak trees and granite monuments bisected by gravel roads and paths. In the shadow of an ancient lightning-scarred oak, two rough squares have been cut into the ground. Twin mounds of earth are hidden beneath green felt beside a row of chairs that overlook the grave. No one is seated in the chairs. Machine stands alone in the spidery shadow of the trees while a young priest with long hair and a goatee reads from The Book of John. Machine isn't listening; he's lost in his own thoughts. He stares down at his mother's coffin.
The sunlight briefly slants through the shifting gray clouds then is gone. The tombstone is in place. “Loved And Lost,” a greeting card expression of grief, is carved in the pink granite. Paul probably picked it out.
The priest finishes reading and looks at Machine hesitantly.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You can leave,” Machine answers without looking up.
The priest bobs his head once and gratefully turns away from the cold teenager. The long-haired cleric walks down the slope, through the trees, and climbs behind the wheel of a subcompact electric that's parked behind a Caprice Machine has borrowed from Kukov’s pool of work cars.